


The City is a MAN!

by Macdicilla



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: GAY RIGHTS!, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-05
Updated: 2019-02-05
Packaged: 2019-10-22 17:18:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17666798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Macdicilla/pseuds/Macdicilla
Summary: It started with the Dwarfs. Many things do.“The better periodicals printed celebratory articles, explanations of the new laws, and stories of newly happy couples and individuals. The Ankh-Morpork Times did a feature on Misses Hammerhead and Goodslate, now Mrs. Hammerhead-Goodslate and Mrs. Goodslate-Hammerhead, complete with an interview and full-color iconographs.The worse periodicals printed: THE RUMOR COME OUT! Does Lord Vetinari is Gay?”Same-gender marriage and other legal rights and protections are instituted in Ankh-Morpork!Also, the Patrician comes out and is having a MARVELOUS time.





	The City is a MAN!

It started with the Dwarfs. Many things do. Under Ankh-Morpork civil law, there existed a code commonly known as the Dwarfish Exception, which permitted the Dwarfs of the city to practice their traditional way of life freely. This code included a subsection that made gender markers on Dwarfish birth certificates and other legal forms of identification strictly opt-in, out of respect for Dwarfs’ ancient tradition of minding their own damn business, and keeping the knowledge of who was what under all their beards and chain-mail amongst themselves.

When Dwarfs married, it was assumed that they’d figured out who was what for themselves. So yes, there were cases of two secretly male Dwarfs or two secretly female Dwarfs contracting a marital union, but the operative word _was_ “secretly.” Few had tried to do it openly before Sandra Hammerhead and Piedra Goodslate. Both of them were openly female. Both of them had arrived at the main desk of the civil registry bureau in their neighborhood, pointedly ignoring the step stool in front of said desk, because it was just disrespectful, and had petitioned a marriage license.

The clerk had hemmed and hawed about whether it was legal.

“You’re both...well, you’re both…” he had sputtered.

“We’re both Dwarfs, sir,” Ms. Goodslate had said.

“Right, right,” said the clerk, sweating. (This had nothing to do with the fact that Ms. Hammerhead had shifted her coat to put one hand impatiently on her hip. It also had nothing to do with the fact that there was a rather mean-looking pickaxe hanging from a leather belt loop on the aforementioned hip.)

“I’’l have to ask my higher-ups about this,” said the clerk.

And he did.

 

His higher-ups, in turn, conferred with their higher-ups, who conferred with experts on the Ankh-Morpork civil code, who confirmed that the matter was indeed somewhat murky, legally speaking. Activists and reactionaries alike conferred with the press. Though the general sentiments of their editorials were wildly different, they’d reached a consensus that if the law was unclear, it had bloody well be amended, for clarity’s sake. It should be put to a vote. 

Ankh-Morpork operated under the principle of One Man, One Vote. There was one man, and even if you’ve heard this one before, you really should let him get to the punchline, it’s one of his favorites: he had the vote.

Various interest groups presented their cases on the matter before the Patrician. It had taken them all damn day. It was a sweltering day, and the Rats’ Chamber had no air circulation, unless you counted the very small breezes of the wingbeats of the many, many flies. After each group spoke, purely out of consideration for their health on a hot summer day, you must understand, Lord Vetinari sent them away, or informed them that they wished to leave, which amounted to the same thing. He also chose the order in which they spoke, but made it clear that they were freely permitted to excuse themselves without speaking. There was a sense in the room that the Patrician might be playing some sort of elimination game, though why that could be, the Patrician pointedly refused to have any idea. A handful of reporters were also present. They, too, were allowed to leave whenever.

 

The last to speak were a diamond Troll and an Undead Person: The Lawyer, Mr. Thunderbolt, and the activist-cum-watchman, Mr. Reginald Shoe. It was eleven at night. Both of them would have preferred to be back in their respective homes, Mr. Shoe especially asleep in his coffin. But the work was important.

Mr. Thunderbolt represented the interests of Misses Hammerhead and Goodslate, as well as the interests of many similar others. His position was that the law should be clarified to permit same gender Dwarf unions, and not just for Dwarfs. He had helpfully drafted a proof of concept for the proposed bill. 

Mr. Shoe stood for much the same, but with more impassioned appeals to Justice. (Considering the way Mr. Thunderbolt usually spoke, this was no small feat.)

“You must do right by _our people_ , Your Lordship,” he exclaimed by the end of it.

“By which you mean the citizens of Ankh-Morpork, of course,” Lord Vetinari said carefully. (It was the sort of careful that showed that you were being careful for the other person’s sake rather than your own.)

“Yes,” said Reg Shoe carefully, but not quite as much. “You know, I recall a young man in black who, many years ago, asked me a question about—”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow,” said the Patrician, straightening out his black shirt cuffs. “I’m also afraid I can’t just sign your bill, Mr. Thunderbolt.”

 

Reg Shoe looked wounded for a brief moment. Then the Patrician took a heavy stack of papers out of his desk drawer and uncapped his fountain pen. 

“Not without first signing _these_ into law.”

He dropped them onto the desk with a dramatic thunk.

Shoe and Thunderbolt looked through the different stapled packets before them. They included an anti-discrimination bill, a bill instituting recognition and protection for individuals whose gender was not the same as had been originally assigned to them (not just for Dwarfs), a bill abolishing the requirement of gender markers on all legal forms of ID, a bill detailing the prosecution of hate crimes, and others of the sort.

“I’ve been working on these for some time, gentlemen, and I do believe they’re ready to go into effect. Pass me your proposal for the marriage bill, Mr. Thunderbolt. I should be done editing it by dawn.”

Reg Shoe looked like he could start singing. Mr. Thunderbolt wasn’t much one for facial expressions, but he did seem vaguely satisfied.

 

“Let it not be said that I don’t take care of _my people_ ,” Vetinari said.

The last few remaining reporters gasped and started scribbling furiously in their remaining notebooks.

“Goodness, but it is late,” Vetinari continued. “Surely the press must sleep at some point. You really mustn’t let me detain you.”

 

The Rats’ Chamber was nearly empty by the time he finished his sentence. Even his Lordship’s best secretary, Mr. Drumknott, had made his way out. Reg Shoe himself was halfway through the door before Vetinari coughed politely to catch his attention.

“My lord?”

“By the way, are you colourblind, Mr Shoe? Or were you when you were alive?” 

“I’m sorry?”

“I can’t help but note that when I asked you, as a young man, many years ago, out of personal interest, whether you knew if John Keel of the Watch was interested in men, that I was not wearing black. Let the record state I was in fact wearing very dark green and very dark gray.” 

Reg Shoe smiled.

“That’s right, my lord.”

Lord Vetinari paused before saying the next thing he wanted to say. He was not, upon reflection, the kind of man who said these things, but he had met and respected some who were, and it seemed fun to permit himself to inhabit the persona for a few seconds. He smiled impishly and said:

“Because black, as it happens, is not the same thing as charcoal.” 

***

The better periodicals printed celebratory articles, explanations of the new laws, and stories of newly happy couples and individuals. _The Ankh-Morpork Times_ did a feature on Misses Hammerhead and Goodslate, now Mrs. Hammerhead-Goodslate and Mrs. Goodslate-Hammerhead, complete with an interview and full-color iconographs.

 

The worse periodicals printed: THE RUMOR COME OUT! Does Lord Vetinari is Gay?

***

Lord Vetinari waited a few weeks, because he didn’t want to make this singular moment in Ankh-Morpork history about himself, and then reached out to the editor of _The Ankh-Morpork Times_ , William de Worde, informing him that William de Worde wanted an interview with him, in order to address some rumors.

Within a few hours, chief editor William de Worde, chief reporter Sacharissa Cripslock, and chief iconographer Otto Chriek had reported to to the Oblong Office. Vetinari led them out to the palace gardens for a leisurely stroll.

“I really wouldn’t be concerned with rumours, sir,” William was saying. “It’s not like anyone sensible actually reads _The Morpork Enquirer._ ”

“Besides,” Sacharissa added, “think about how it would look. It might come across—not to me, of course, but to others—as a touch homophobic to do a whole interview about not being gay.”

“Miss Cripslock,” Vetinari said, with deep, deep patience, “we are not doing an interview about _not_ being gay.”

 

Gods, her face!

***

It was a nice, respectful little piece. Yes, the Patrician was gay, but he considered himself more married to the city than anything else. It didn’t cause a stir.

Well, there was one line that spontaneously caused coughing fits in living rooms across the city, but not much more else. 

The Patrician had informed his interviewer that no, he was not currently seeing anyone, but “who knows what the future holds? I am no hedgehog, after all.”

(Footnote: The hedgehog being immortalized in rude songs as an animal that can never be buggered at all.) 

Otto’s eyes had gone wide.

“Ve cannot be printink zat, Your Lordship!”

“Surely you’ve printed worse,” he said, raising an eyebrow.

“That’s not the issue, sir,” William explained. “It would lower the journalistic integrity of this paper to quote people as saying things they never said.”

“But I did say that,” the Patrician pointed out helpfully.

“Yes,” Sacharissa said glumly, “but who would believe us?”

 The Patrician laughed quietly to himself. 

***

No, the article itself hadn’t caused a stir. “I’ve always considered myself married to the city” was something the people expected to hear. The controversy had been around the title. Most people didn’t read articles past the title anyway. The title of the article had been “The City is a MAN!”

The citizens of Ankh-Morpork had always been the sort who, upon hearing “let there be light”, would immediately ask “what colour?”

The main camps of the controversy, which was more of a new favorite topic of pub arguments, were as follows:

 

-Yeah! Ankh-Morpork is a man! We’re a real tough city, ain’t we?

-Actually, if you look at the iconography on the friezes of our official buildings, on our stamps, and on older versions of the crest of arms, Morporkia has always been characterized as a bold woman.

-Cities don’t have genders, you dullards. You morons. You absolute buffoons.

-Of COURSE Ankh-Morpork is a man! I mean, have ya SMELLED it? Eugh!

Among others. But these were the main ones.

***

Morporkia appeared to Vetinari in a dream in an attempt to nip speculation in the bud. 

“I never married you!” she said.

“That’s quite fine,” he said. 

“In fact, I’m seeing the personification of Pseudopolis.” 

“Is that so? Very nice,” he said. “Now, are you quite done being in my dream? I only have four hours of sleep scheduled for tonight and I don’t intend to spend them being bickered at by anthropomorphized entities.”

Morporkia smiled wickedly.

“Oh, of course!” she said. “Don’t let _me_ detain _you_.”

With that, he awoke suddenly and was unable to catch the other three and a half hours of sleep he had planned on. He laid awake, face-up, on his narrow pine bed for half an hour, trying. Then he sighed, got up, and started work early. 

***

Starting one’s day with a meeting with Lord Downey, head of the Assassins’ guild, was never pleasant, but it was even less pleasant on twenty-seven minutes of sleep. The bastard was on about one of the new laws. 

“Just to be clear,” Downey was saying, “the statute on hate crimes only refers to murder, and not perfectly legal, decent inhumation, right? It’s just that the text itself uses the word ‘killing’ rather than any of the less ambiguous terms.”

“As I have already explained, Lord Downey,” Vetinari said calmly, “it has nothing to do with method and everything to do with motivation. If someone feels that they’ve been killed—“ he sighed, tired, and pinched the bridge of his nose, “If someone’s friends and family feel that an individual has been killed, legally or not, due to bias, then yes, they do have the right to bring the culpable party, whether the culpable party is a common murderer, or someone who has engaged a commission from an Assassin, or the Assassin themselves, to a fair trial. It doesn’t seem unfair to hold someone liable for something they've been commissioned to do. Nor indeed to confiscate the commission fee, but only in the case of a guilty verdict.” 

“Yes, about the stipulations for that kind of trial, er, Your Lordship,” Downey continued with the nervous, uncomfortable deference of someone who had been cruel to somebody else in school and now had to answer to them, “I can’t help but notice a few features that call into question the fairness of the trial.” 

“Really? Please continue.” 

“Well, I can’t help but notice that it only calls for one juror, rather than the traditional eight. Would this not put undue influence on the judge?”

“Would it? I can’t see how.”

“Well, am I right to suspect, if I may be so bold, that it would be a case of one juror, one vote?” 

“Yes, Downey, jurors do not generally get more than one vote. That is how juries work. Would you like me to explain juries to you, Downey?” 

“Very droll, Your Lordship. One hopes the juror would be impartial.”

“One _does_ hope he would be. Justice should be done properly.”

“One hopes it would be done without stepping on guild toes. AGH!”

This last remark was due to a swift, firm jab at Lord Downey’s right foot by a cane tip.

“Oh, dear me, old friend,” Lord Vetinari said, “I’m terribly sorry! It doesn’t get any easier walking with this thing, no matter how much I practice.”

(Footnote: the “don’t mind me, I’m just a little old man” schtick is not very convincing when the man in question is 1) over six foot, 2) only in his mid-fifties, and 3) a lethal weapon.) 

“Anyway, I’m glad I could be of use putting you at ease about laws and procedures and all that, Lord Downey. Please hesitate to contact me in the future.” 

The polite smile slid off Lord Downey’s face, and Lord Downey slid out of the room.

 

Ye gods! There had been nothing criminal about the meeting, but Vetinari sure had hated it. His thoughts were interrupted by an argument outside the door of the Oblong Office. Though it was a whispered argument, he could still make out the timbres of the voices of Sir Samuel Vimes, commander of the city watch, and Mr. Drumknott, the best of Vetinari’s secretaries.

“If you’re not here on Watch business, Your Grace, may I suggest you reschedule your meeting?”

“I know for a fact that he has an open block of time right now, and I would like to talk to him.” 

“I’m afraid he does not, actually.” 

“Doesn’t he?”

“You see, he’s going to be a bit busy because I would like to talk to him.” 

“Oh, Palace business, is it?”

“It very well might be, Your Grace.”

 

“Gentlemen, please,” boomed the Patrician’s voice cheerily from the other side of the great doors. “Resolve this on your own time. Perhaps over lunch? I’ll be sure to join you both. In the meantime, I will be quite busy answering all my correspondence from here to noon.”

Vetinari heard them mutter some apologies and cut his letters open very loudly to drown them out.

 

The first one was from Lady Margolotta of Überwald, his oldest friend. (In both senses of the word. They had known each other for a very long time, and, as a vampire, albeit a reformed one, she was hundreds of years old.)

It did not seem to concern either Überwald or Ankh-Morpork.

 

“My Dear Havelock,

Well-wishes, etc. are due, no doubt, but most of all, thanks from the very bottom of my heart. You would not believe how many suitable ladies were reluctant to stay with me at my castle, even when I invited them first, because they were under the impression that I secretly had a very scary boyfriend, no matter how much I assured them that I didn’t. Ever since your coming out, the tides have changed, and I am now getting SWATHES of pu— [a word was redacted here and replaced with:] attention. Cheers for that.

Ever yours, 

Margot.”

 

Vetinari smiled. Well! Good for her.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to my first readers, Marina, Sadé, Sasha, AbsolxGuardian, and Marquise de Clarabas for laughing at my jokes and weighing in.
> 
> Special, special thanks to AbsolxGuardian in particular for allowing me to use their characterization and headcanons about Reg Shoe. 
> 
> Morporkia telling Vetinari off was Marquise de Clarabas’ idea.


End file.
